Who Was William?
by Snowman1
Summary: A Backwards look into Vaughn's father's life. Chapter 7 updated. Rated for violence and language. Maybe sex later...
1. Chapter 1

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**742 Main St., Los Angeles, May 14th, 1976 5:00 A.M.**

The alarm clock rang out at 5:00 in the morning. Groggily, a man rolled out of bed. Roughly six feet tall, this person walked around the bed and went to his wife's side. With a kiss on her cheek, she woke up. Staring at his chest and boxers, she smiled. "Good morning," she said with a wink.

"I've got work today. I'll be home late, probably. But next weekend, I swear. I'll take you to that restaurant you want." William begged with his wife, Nicole, but she would have none of it. She turned around, her face down in the pillow, and covered her head with the covers. Looking at the clock, and realizing time was of the essence, he head for the shower. By 5:30, he was dressed in a suit, writing something down in his diary.

__

"I can't believe you want me to do this- it's hard enough lying to my family about what I have to do, but now you want me to go off to Russia? I can't take down Derevko, 8 others have tried, and I have to stare at the stars representing them every day I enter this building. They've failed, and that's not my priority right now! I'm not about to be number 9, I have a family to take care of, I have thousands of reasons not to go on your wild goose chase."

~ My thoughts towards Director O'Quinn

When he had finished the entry, he looked up. Staring back at him was a 7-year-old boy, who was woken by the shower running. "Hey, Dad! Only girls keep diaries!" he said. The man laughed, and sent him away. What a terrible way to spend a Saturday morning…

****

**CIA Headquarters, Los Angeles, May 14th, 1976 6:30 A.M.**

"Your plane leaves in an hour, Vaughn. If I were you, I'd get over there pretty quick. It's a commercial flight, so if you're late you've screwed this whole operation." Director O'Quinn boomed at a briefing.

"I, I… I can't believe you want me to do this!" William screamed. "This is nuts! There is absolutely no way you can want me to chase after this Russian assassin! Take a look over there!" he said, pointing out the window to a broken man at a computer. He was just staring at the screen, fighting hard to hold back tears. "And she didn't even physically hurt him! She put him through 6 months of solitary confinement, she is a goddamn master of deception! I refuse to go on your wild goose chase."

"Vaughn!"

William snapped out of his trance he was in. "Yes, I'm going. Don't worry."

****

**Somewhere over the Atlantic, May 14th, 1976 7:42**

"This is your captain speaking," a husky male voice came over the intercom. "Flight 4747 headed for Siberia. We will take off in five minutes, so I'd suggest that you begin to buckle up, sit back, and relax, and enjoy your flight." With a little beep, the captain signed off. William looked up from his magazine, and observed his surroundings. He was in an aisle seat, next to a surprisingly young man, who looked vaguely familiar. As if he were an old colleague… "No," he muttered to himself. "Nobody knew about that."

An attractive young stewardess with surprisingly beautiful black hair came over to him. Even though he knew that it was a stewardesses job to keep the passengers happy, he couldn't help but think that this one's smile was extra-large. "Would you like anything to drink, sir?"

"Yes," he said. "A sprite would be just fine." 

"Yes, sir," she said, pulling a glass out from under the cart, and pouring his drink. He thanked her as he put the drink down on the tray in front of him, and then she continued on. If he had paid more attention, he might have noticed that she didn't serve any other customers. Or stay on the plane for very long, but rather got off through the baggage loading area. 

Tired, William took his first sip into the glass. It felt cool running down his parched throat, and he drank the full eight ounces in one gulp. It wasn't until after it had cleared his throat that it started to burn. He gagged, and coughed out a little, plastic star. He flipped it over, and there, written in pen, was a number nine.

"Damn you!" he said, and collapsed on his tray.

Alexander Khasinou stood up from next to him, checked his pulse, and left the plane too.


	2. Chapter 2

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**Buenos Aires, Argentina, May 12th, 1976 5:20 P.M.**

"Yes, yes," William's said into the walkie-talkie. "Yes, I know. I'm taking care of it." Some more garbled speech came over the walkie-talkie, un-intelligible to those not listening carefully enough or who were not standing closely enough. After a brief scan, he found his target. A rock marked with that freaky sign that seemed to be popping up everywhere. "I think I found the cave, master," he said into the walkie-talkie. Slowly but carefully, he pulled out a shovel and started to dig. It wasn't long until he found the opening, and started to climb down the ladder. 

"Nobody can know what this is…" he said to himself.

"Nobody can know where this is…" he said to himself

"But they will, Mr. Vaughn. But they will. Nobody can hide me," a mysterious voice seemed to come out of nowhere

"Leave me alone!" Vaughn cried. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

While weeping, he hurried down the ladder. With a rather large book in his hand, he took each rung one at a time, until he was finally at the floor. 

"Thanks again, master, for making this cave," he said with complete calm in his voice back through the walkie-talkie. 

"Which one of your masters made it, though?" That voice wouldn't leave him alone. 

"Damn you!" he screamed to no one in particular, but the omnipresent voice left him alone. "You want your book?" Will cried. "Come get it!" And with that, he put it on a pedestal, drenched it in gasoline, and set a match on it. "Let them try to bring you back now!"

Laughing maniacally, he left the tomb.

The book didn't burn

****

**Buenos Aires, Argentina, May 13th, 1976 3:38 P.M.**

In an airport, a young woman sat knitting. Michael couldn't help but smile and wink at her as he passed by her bench. She returned both gestures, and continued her knitting. As he past by her, a 40-year-old Arvin Sloane sat down next to her. While appearing to read a newspaper article about the baseball game from the previous night, he held a conversation with the knitting Irina Derevko.

"The CIA didn't sanction this mission, you know." Sloane started

"Obviously," she said. "I wouldn't have noticed that if you didn't tell me for the past week." All the while, she was knitting. 

Knitting

Still knitting.

"So, who's been added to the registry today?" Sloane asked

"Two men. The first down will have to be Jack Bristow, as soon as he's released from solitary. After him, next to go is William Vaughn."

She stood up, and revealed in her knitting was a rose. If one looked closer, they would realize that every 10th line was actually coded words. At the very base of the bloom, "W. Vaughn" was written in a series of colors.

"Good luck, mademoiselle Defarge," Sloane said under his breath, and he too left the airport.


	3. Chapter 3

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***St. Petersburg, Russia May 3rd, 1973, 2:43 P.M.***

William stood amidst all the Russians in the crowded city-street. Under his breath, he cursed himself once again for setting up a meeting here, especially with the current standard between the United States and Russia. But regardless, he needed to talk to his contact. As the hustle and bustle went by in front of him, he pulled his jacket a little tighter around him. With no sign of his contact, William turned around and entered the pub he was standing outside of. Inside the building there was a great haze of cigarette smoke everywhere, and the general impression of a pool hall. Michael gazed around the room, and eventually found a small, empty table. He had just sat down when an attractive blonde waitress came over to him.

"Can I get you something?" She asked. 

"Scotch and water, hold the scotch," he replied with a grin.

"Was that a joke?" she asked.

"Yes, it was. I'll just have a Sprite."

When she left, William kept his eyes on her. He noticed the way that her ass moved, and it simply enchanted her. Quickly, he checked his fingers. No ring. That was good. Just as his waitress was entering the kitchen, another one exited.

"Funny," he said to himself. In his head, he realized the blonde was wearing a blue apron. Everyone else was wearing a red one. While this would have normally triggered an instinct off in his brain, Vaughn accepted that Russia had different traditions than the United States. 

In the kitchen, the blonde turned right.

"What are you doing here? You're not part of my staff!" yelled a chef as she walked by. 

With a glare of acid, she pulled out her silenced pistol. She shot the chef in the shoulder, a place she carefully chose because it wouldn't kill him. In pain, he spun and fell over. Unfortunately, he was a chef. He landed on his own greasy grill. With a shrill cry, his face started to burn to a crisp. The hat he was wearing slipped off of his head, and it caught flame. Crying and yelling and cursing uncontrollably, the chef was pulled off the grill finally by two other cooks. His hat was reduced to nothing more than a pile of ashes, and his face was seriously burned.

"Never mess with a busy woman," the blonde said, with both hands supporting the handle of her pistol, held at arm's length from her. She turned around, and continued out the door.

"He just ordered a soda. Should I put the arsenic in it?" she said, ripping off her wig to reveal jet-black hair. After no response, she looked around. Her superior was nowhere to be found. Not sitting in his car in the back parking lot. He wasn't in any bush. And then Irina remembered Khasinou's favorite past time: smoking. She looked up, and there on a small ledge above the doorway she was standing in, was Khasinou, lying on his side and smoking a cigar. Deliberately, he shook a few cinders out of the edge onto his minion. Then he stood up, looked down, and jumped off. 

"No. Not yet. We need him for now; he's accomplished what I've been searching for the last ten years: he won't escape my grasp." In his nervousness, he took back up his cigar, and slowly exhaled the smoke. 

Exasperated, Irina started to leave, when he said, "That doesn't mean you can't have some fun, of course," he said, pulling out a flask from his jacket. He tossed it to her, and she unscrewed the lid and took a whiff.

"That much vodka could kill him!" she said, almost a little worried.

"No, it won't. Make sure there's enough of his soda to last him. And he's a heavy drinker, I've watched him." With that, Khasinou turned from the doorway to look out into the moon. "We're so close to what Rambaldi knew. I think we can afford to get him drunk."

After a few minutes of waiting and adjusting his eyes to the dimmed lighting of the pub, his waitress returned with a freakishly large mug of soda. 

"Here's your 64 ounces of Sprite," she said with a knowing smile.

"Thanks," he replied. "Come here for a second," he said, beckoning her to bend down. When their faces were close enough, he looked up and kissed her long and hard. When they broke, Irina couldn't breathe.

"I hope that thing stays caught in your throat for a good two minutes. Tell your superior that I'm not gonna be caught drunk in our meeting!" he said, and he kicked her gut.

Desperate, Irina kicked around on the ground. She gasped and gasped, but to no avail. With little breath left, she pressed a button on her walkie-talkie, and Khasinou came running out of the kitchen. He looked around, and he saw her on the ground. In a panic, he put pressure on her stomach, trying to pump some air out of her lungs. It worked, and with a cough, a small screw came out of her throat.

Just as William was about to leave the pub, two big, muscular men stepped in front of him.

"Get out of my way, or I will make you get out of my way." William said with a voice of ice.

The two guards just laughed, and glared down at their opponent. Will slowly began to take in the reality of what his situation was. Each guard was probably armed, and they were at least six inches taller than he was. But he knew what to do. He stepped back and shuffled into a karate stance called "Meikohachi Dachi," or cat stance. It allowed his front leg to be ready to kick quickly if necessary, and his back leg was used for support. In this stance, he quickly delivered a well-placed kick to the first guard's gut. The bent over, and William took the opportunity to deliver a punch to the second guard's chin. Fazed, the second guard quickly readjusted himself, and protected his face with his hands. The bigger man gave a quick jab with his right, and then his left, which William dodged with difficulty, and then retaliated by grabbing the outstretched arm and threw him into a table. An unfortunate coupled had a 6 foot six, 250-pound man ruin their dinner. For the second that Will took to re-catch his breath, the other guard snuck up behind him, and knocked him out.

"Now let's see if he'll talk to us," Khasinou said, and then he spat on the body.


	4. Chapter 4

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***Los Angeles, April 25th, 1976, 8:00 P.M.***

Nicole sat in the kitchen, waiting for her husband to return. It was 8 o'clock, and he said he'd be home by 7. She and her son, Michael had to eat dinner without him. By now, their 7-year-old son was up in bed, asleep for all she knew. But she didn't know that little Mikey was not sleeping so easily as he had been in his younger years. He had come down with Spring Fever: a girl named Alice who lived across the street from him had recently become the object of his affection. At night he would think of her, and think of nothing but her. In fact, he was a little ashamed of it. Boys his age were still convinced that girls had cooties. In a way, he believed that too, but at the same time he knew that Alice was different. His thoughts were interrupted by a slamming door coming from downstairs.

"Where have you been?" Nicole asked impatiently of her husband.

Sighing, Will didn't even say anything. He just sat down at the head of the kitchen table, and began eating the long since cold chicken that lay on his plate.

"Well?" she asked again.

"I was out with the guys," Will replied with a far off voice.

"Oh right," she said, almost as if it was obvious. But her sentences reeked with sarcasm. "Out with the guys. How many of these fights are we gonna have to have before you get it? If you say you're gonna be home, I expect you to be home!"

With a swallow, he looked up and stared at her with eyes beaten down from a long day's work. "You really want to know where I was?"

She realized that this was one of those times that they had talked about before. Where he was lying to keep her safe. To keep her alive. "No," she confessed. "Don't tell me."

"That's better!" he said with an aggressive voice. "Now, let's not have this talk again, you hear me?"

In almost fear, Nicole cowered back. "I hear you, I hear you."

"Good," he said. "Now let me finish my dinner."

Nicole was suddenly terrified of her husband. In shambles, she ran up to her room. Michael heard the pounding footsteps, and quickly closed his eyes. His mother's bedroom door slammed, and Michael heard crying from within his mother's room. He wanted to console her, but there was school tomorrow. He needed his rest. So he turned over, fitfully and tried to get to sleep. And ignore the fight that he knew was yet to come.

Downstairs, William felt guilty about having to send his wife away like that. He couldn't tell her where he really was: she wouldn't believe him for one. But also because he needed some privacy. He reached into his briefcase, and pulled out an aged, yellow page. He tried to analyze it, again. Diagrams for a special machine; blueprints for the battery to power it, and then, there was more. A prophecy, involving a man. The hair on the man in the picture was full and fluffy. He was young, and the picture showed him as physically fit. William felt almost destined to find this picture, and the most amusing thing about the picture was that the face was frighteningly familiar. But from where?

He tried to piece it together in his head, but it just wouldn't come.

"You know where that face is from, don't you?" a strange voice hissed from nowhere. William looked up, startled. No one was in the kitchen. He sat back down in his seat, and there, sitting across from him, was an old man in his hundreds, with no question. His white hair with gray streaks was running down his back, which was clothed in a light brown shirt. His beard, too, was white and gray, although it was a far darker shade of the two complimenting colors. 

"Rambaldi?"

"It's good that you recognized me this time. I must say, it is quite wonderful to finally be here in the flesh, though. I thought you might realize that I was real in your dreams. But no, it just didn't click for you, did it?" Rambaldi stood up and walked around the room. "Nice place you got here," he said, with his back facing William.

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

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***Los Angeles, April 25th, 1976, 8:30 P.M.***

"Nice place you got here," Rambaldi said. It was only then that William noticed that Rambaldi was glowing: a sort of goldish-orange light was just emanating from around him. Almost as if he wasn't fully there. Like a spirit, urging to leave its own dimension and willing itself to enter Will's.

"Of course you're not really here," Will commented, trying to turn it over in his head. This is all just a dream, or-or something." He stuttered over his last words, trying to come up with a better explanation.

"No, it is truly me. In the flesh. Well, almost, anyway. You've been a very good servant, lately, William."

"No! I am in charge of my own life!" Will cried in exasperation. "I am in charge… I am…" he started to sob with the last statements.

"There, there, _Signor_ Vaughn. It will be alright," Rambaldi shot back, with a touch of his Italian accent about him.

"No, you're wrong. I will be all right. I'd love to say the same of you, though!" and he sprang up from the table and started to barrage the architect with everything he had; jab, jab, roundhouse kick, uppercut, crescent kick, another crescent, karate chops, bear hugs. Any martial arts technique he could muster. But Rambaldi avoided them each with ease, never using anything more than a simple hand motion to protect himself. 

"Heh-heh…" he chuckled to himself, as he dodged a few more punches. Two kicks came at him, and he simply cried out "WAX ON, WAX OFF, BITCH!" Eventually, Rambaldi had had enough and grabbed Will's arm and pulled, then pushed him to the ground.

"Is that out of your system, Will?" Rambaldi taunted.

"Almost!" He cried, and kicked the frail man off him. But in midair, Rambaldi regained his balance and flipped around to ensure his landing. Will knew the kick would be futile, so he ran to the kitchen.

"Come on, Nicole, where'd you put those damned knives?" The question was answered by a butcher's knife whizzing by his ear, and digging itself into the wall next to him. Immediately, he turned his head and there was Rambaldi, knives held by the handle in between his long, brittle fingers.

"Let's go!" and Rambaldi began, one by one, tossing the knives across the kitchen. William tried his best to dodge them, but there was little he could do. Eventually, he ducked down and opened a cabinet door to use as a shield. Looking in it, he found what he had been looking for all along: the pots and pans. He quickly grabbed a pot and a cookie sheet and re-entered the battlefield with a new confidence. A knife came at him, and almost in slow motion he put the sheet up to deflect it, and caught it with the pot. Another knife came flying, and he baseball-batted it out of the way with the pot. 

"Who's in trouble now, bitch?" Will screamed.

Upstairs, little Mikey heard the clanging of metal from the kitchen. He laughed. "You're such a klutz, Daddy," he thought to himself. But then the cursing made him worried. Daddy never screamed unless it was at Mommy, and Mommy was in bed. She, definitely, could not hear it, over the racket of her tears and the music pouring out of her record box. Little Mikey suddenly decided to face his fears, and confront Daddy about his anger problems. Stumbling down the stairs, Michael tried to pick out an approach. In his wondering, he didn't stop to hear the two voices arguing. But Rambaldi and William were fighting, and they had passed physical harm by now.

Rambaldi stood, his arms folded in a very intimidating pose. "Admit it, Vaughn. You're mine forever and for always. Stop trying to resist, and succumb."

"Never! I am in control of my own destiny, and no matter what you think, you can't change that!"

Just then, Mikey did enter the room. Rambaldi was all set up to retaliate, when Mikey called out, "Daddy?"

Instantly, Rambaldi changed his shape and took on the appearance of the little boy's father. With a few illusions, there was only one William Vaughn in the room, as far as Michael could see.

"Daddy, what are you doing?"

"Nothing, Mikey. Having trouble sleeping?"

Innocently, Michael nodded his head in that cute way that only little boys can pull off.

"Here," Rambaldi called out, silencing the real William Vaughn. For an instant, Michael could see both of his fathers, and was slightly confused. But he put it out of his head, and he headed over to his father. "Take this watch; you can set your heart by it."

"What does that mean?" Michael asked, treasuring the assumed family heirloom.

"I'll explain it later," the imposter said with a wink. "Now go to bed, I have important work to finish." 

Mikey left the room, confused by tired too, so it was all good in his mind.

But while Rambaldi wasn't looking, the real Vaughn carved something into the stretch of skin between his thumb and his forefinger with a knife he had caught during their fight.

"Now, Slave, here's what you must do next…" Rambaldi said, finishing his illusion and setting everything back in its place. He began to pull out a scroll, when William made a mad dash for a door outside the kitchen. Rambaldi knew the house by heart, and simply glided through the floor in the basement to meet Will.

"Ahhhh, yes. I remember designing this one…" Rambaldi said. "My greatest yet." His "Greatest" was actually just a series of 94 Rambaldi artifacts assembled together. Each one helped to create a portal.

"Well, I hope the memory remains!" Will screamed, and he ripped out the artifacts one by one. A telescope there, a gyroscope here. 

"NO!!!!!" Rambaldi said, as he faded out and the light around him dimmed.

Gasping, William took out every artifact but two. And those two were absolutely nothing, as far as he was concerned. The phantom was gone.

"You can't get rid of me…" a voice came from nowhere.

William fainted at the voice. He regained consciousness in his bed, next to Nicole. "I love you, honey," he said with pure respect. He went to hug her, when he noticed his left hand. Carved between his thumb and forefinger was….

****

0 : April, 25.


	6. Chapter 6

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***Secret Hideout Somewhere, February 13th, 1976, 2:14 A.M.***

"Was it really necessary to call me here this early, Master?" William said, groggily wiping his eyes.

"Of course… Mister Vaughn, I've come into knowledge of another artifact. And it can be yours." All this time, a black leather chair was overlooking a view of a lake. William knew that his master was in that chair, but he'd been told never to look him directly in the face. As the chair started to swivel, William bowed his head down. He heard the sound of leather sliding across his master's wooden desk. The desk swiveled back around, and Will saw the black portfolio on the desk.

"Impossible…" William said, reading the portfolio. "No way could Rambaldi have made a telescope like that. Galileo would have killed to get this."

"Funny you should mention that, Mr. Vaughn…"

Will was curious, but he read the portfolio just a little bit more. "In India? I mean honestly, how does Rambaldi get his stuff that far across the world? He's Italian!"

"Mr. Vaughn, you really should get going. You don't quite have the time to get there." Will read a little bit deeper, and saw that the telescope would be traded that afternoon. 

"I'm off, don't worry."

****

***Memphis, Tennessee, February 13th, 1976, 7:37 A.M.***

"Mr. O'Quinn!" Will sighed into the phone

"William, where the hell are you? You were due for a brief at six this morning!"

"I know sir, but I've got some crucial intelligence for you."

"Why should I believe you again?"

"Mr. O'Quinn, I recognize that I'm not exactly the most reliable agent you have, but hear me out."

In L.A., O'Quinn looked at his watch.

"You've got two minutes, I, unlike some people, have somewhere to be."

"In addition to learning something more about Rambaldi, I've learned of a trade between two Russians. They just so happen to be on the Top 10 Wanted list."

"You're proposing a hit?"

"Of course."

"So what's being traded this time?"

"That's irrelevant."

William stood in anticipation at the pay phone booth he was in. He could almost hear O'Quinn thinking it over in his head.

"Who are the two Russians?" O'Quinn inquired.

"Alexei Molonkov, and…"

"Hurry up, Agent Vaughn. I have a meeting, remember?"

He quickly breathed out a mumble of syllables, but O'Quinn heard it.

"Derevko's alive?!? How?"

"I'm not quite sure, but I managed to steal some video footage from Alexander Khasinou. She's still alive."

"Vaughn, don't let this kind of thing get out, ok? Bristow's still in deep psychiatric treatment. And since 'Laura's' death, Sloane's been acting rather strange."

"Really? Imagine that." Vaughn thought to himself.

"Do you have the tools to maim these two?"

"I don't go anywhere without my tranquilizer pistol, Director," Vaughn said, lightly feeling his shoulder holster.

"Feel free to proceed. I presume you're in place already?"

Will bit his lip, then said "I guess you could say that…"

"Good. I expect this artifact, and two new prisoners tomorrow"

"No problem, Terry," Will said with a chuckle.

"That's Director!"

With a click, William turned out of the booth. In the relentless traffic, William saw one set of eyes staring at him. Underneath a sombrero and a poncho, a mysterious pair of eyes glared at him. He knew instantly who it was, and wasn't surprised when the figure flew up into the air and out of sight. What was even less surprising is that nobody saw it. 

"I'll beat you this time, Rambaldi…"

And he hopped on his motorcycle…

****

***Los Angeles, California, February 13th, 1976, 7:40 A.M.***

O'Quinn hung up the phone.

"Did you get that trace, Ms. Flinkman?"

With a few spastic stutters that captured the hearts of millions in another universe, she said, "Yes. He's in Memphis."

TBC….


	7. Chapter 7

*****Memphis, Tennessee, February, 13th, 1976, 7:40 A.M.*****

William reached the highway on his red, Harley Davidson motorcycle, in his black leather jacket. He wasn't wearing a helmet, and he let his brown hair whip back in the wind. His green eyes were clearly visible through his clear goggles. "Damn," he said. "I'm hott" (A/N: I just had to throw in some MV imagery into your head.). Carefully, he looked down at his watch; it was almost 8 o'clock, and the trade was to be made at 11 in Russia. To just anyone, getting there would be a problem. But for William; nothing was difficult anymore.

All of the sudden, he noticed that he was alone on the highway, there were no more cars in the lanes beside him, and nothing in front of him. "Screw the speed limits, they'll never catch me." If only he knew…

Just then, four, small, black sports cars entered from the ramp onto his golden path out to freedom. One pulled out in front of the others, going only a few miles per hour faster than William's 75. One stayed right beside him, keeping up with his speed. The other two dropped behind him, but one went to his left side, while the other stayed behind him. They were trying to box him in, trying to stop him from reaching his target. But who could it be?

****

***Los Angeles, California, February 13th, 1976, 7:45 A.M.***

A lone walkie-talkie came to life. "Sir, we've got him," the voice crackled through on the conference table. 

"Take it, Mr. Kendall. You need to learn how to deal with this kind of situation."

So a seventeen-year-old Kendall picked up the walkie-talkie. "Move in on him," he said with a slightly pubertic voice. "Was that good, uncle?" he said, outside of the frequency.

"Excellent -- you're a fine intern."

****

***Memphis, Tennessee, February 13th, 1976, 7:45 A.M.***

"Acknowledged, HQ," a rather big thug from the car up front.

With a flash of his back blinkers, the four cars began to close in on the Harley Davidson. William began to get nervous: he recognized a colleague from the CIA in the car to his right, so he couldn't use what he needed to escape. But since when did they consider him disloyal?

Realizing it was a risky move, he pulled out his pistol. Carefully, so as not to create an explosion, he aimed his laser pointer at the car behind him, positioning it with his rear view mirror. With two shots, the rear car bumped and began to sink. With a terrible skidding sound and many sparks, the front wheels, tireless, scraped against the hard highway. Using the entrance opened up by the lack of a car behind him, he slammed on the brakes. The three remaining cars flew past him, until they realized their prey was gone. The car behind him had since given up trying to drive and instead opened its four doors and each man, in suits, ducked behind the doors and trained their pistols on him. The other three cars turned around in the middle of a deserted highway. 

"Get off the vehicle, Mr. Vaughn, or we will force you to," came agent Debenedictis' voice from the back car.

"Can't do that, Kevin. Sorry!" and with that, he pulled out his modified M9, filled with tranquilizers, and knocked out the four agents. He turned, and noticed that the remainders were slowly closing the 200-yard gap. He, too, began to drive towards them. 20 mph, 50 mph, 60 mph and he was suddenly only 20 feet away. He pulled up on the handlebars and balanced on the back wheel. With the press of a button on the body of the bike, he activated a powerful blast out his exhaust pipes, and he launched up off the middle car. Instead of landing, he continued up, and up, and up…

"Thank you, Rambaldi. Zero-point energy… so brilliant!"

Navigating with another set of controls, he began his trip to Russia -- at 500 feet above the ground.

****

***Moscow, Russia, February 13th, 1976, 10:50 A.M.***

William hurriedly rushed into the alleyway that Irina and Alexei were to trade. He watched from the fire escape next to the hotel's wall that formed the alley. Breathing heavily, he pulled out his binoculars. His breathing calmed, and he scanned the horizon. 

He stumbled for no reason. Out of the blue, there came a random image of himself, in New Delhi, scanning a marketplace setting. 

He regained his composure, and assured himself he had never been to India, though he noticed in his mind, he was not as heavy set as he was now. 

"Mikey!" he gasped, his breath catching up with him, realizing whom he saw.

Focusing back on the task at hand, he noticed Alexei entering the scene with a briefcase in his hand.

"I'll bet there's thousands of rubles in there…" he said to himself.

Irina entered from the other side, with a box in her arms.

A hooded figure, about 5 feet tall, came from behind Alexei and set up a table.

"My son. He never liked school like his friends did, he always liked my work more. But, what more can you ask from a 6-year-old with a Russian accent and a lisp? I call him Shark, but he can't quite pronounce it."

The hood came off, and frighteningly blonde hair stared William in the face.

"Fascinating," Irina said, not caring. "Let's see the money."

And the one called Shark opened Alexei's briefcase. William couldn't see it from his vantagepoint, but when Irina pulled out the bronze telescope, he could see it perfectly.

"I am satisfied, Irina said.

"Likewise," said Alexei. "Come, Shark." And the little boy put the telescope into a bag, and folded up the table.

"Now!" William said to himself. He jumped off the fire escape, landing on one foot, one knee, and his hand on the floor. Pulling out his pistol, he fired a quick shot into Alexei's shoulder. He couldn't afford to let either of the traders escape, but the boy could go. He took the unconscious body and the telescope and brought it to his hideaway. 15 minutes later, when the body was successfully hidden, William stumbled into the least likely of people. Irina Derevko sat in a pub, with the little boy.

"What was your name, again?"

"Thhhhark," he said, lisping over the "sh."

"Let's make it easy on you, how about Sark?"

A tap on his shoulder made Will turn around to see a muscular Arvin Sloane.

"Hello, Vaughn."

****

***Moscow, Russia, February 14th, 1976, 1:07 A.M.***

William regained consciousness in a hospital not very far away from the alleyway. He could feel the bandage on his head, and realized he must have been punched pretty hard. He opened his eyes, and saw a nurse in his room. "Excuse me, can I make a call?"

"Sure."

The nurse helped him out of his bed, and put him in a wheelchair. She wheeled him down to the end of the hall, where there was an old receptionist desk. 

First, he called the master.

"Sir, I've hidden the telescope in…"

"I know, I found it already. My people are everywhere, I knew what you did."

"Good."

With a click, the short conversation ended.

Secondly, he called O'Quinn.

"Director O'Quinn's office, this is Kendall."

"Kendall?" William thought to himself. "Oh right, that bitch of an intern."

"This is William Vaughn for Director O'Quinn. Tell him Derevko got away, but I've got Alexei. She took the artifact I was after, too. I failed."

"What a surprise…" Kendall mumbled under his breath.

-Click-

****

***Moscow, Russia, February 14th, 1976, 10:45 P.M.***

He left the hospital with nothing more than a large bruise and some stitches. As he did, he headed over to his motorcycle, which he stashed in the parking lot of a supermarket. He went to start it, but it didn't catch. He examined it further, and found a note.

"Happy Valentines!

3, Irina"

"Dammit!", and he kicked the bike over, exposing the eye of Rambaldi he had engraved into the side of his Harley.


	8. Chapter 8

****

December 18th, 1975, Pacific Ocean, 9:17 P.M[/b[

"Wake up, Matee," the captain grumbled. With a kick, William turned over and looked up. The wooden frames that had become synonymous with Home for a week greeted him. True, he hated the fact that he was living in such a poor excuse for a boat for a week, but it was still better than… he couldn't even bring himself to thinking it. The floor all of a sudden became much harder, even after eight hours of sleep on it. The comforter, too, became more uncomfortable and warmer. Shedding his sole sheet, he revealed himself to be in a white undershirt and blue boxers. He stepped out onto the pathetic deck. To his left, the captain stood in his normal get-up: a blue and white cap, his blue blazer on the only white shirt her owned, and the customary blue pants.

"Is it hot out here or what?" William asked. He ran a finger over the stubble that had brought itself to life over his week on the boat.

"I'd expect ye to feel that way after six months in - " but he cut himself short, seeing the discomfort he had caused to his crew. "Why were ye there anyway?

"Work," Will replied simply.

Sensing the awkwardness, the captain dropped the subject. "We'll be reaching shore in probably two hours. Do what you want with the time."

"Thank you."

****

December 18th, 10 miles from California Shore, 11:12 A.M.

"Land ho!" the Captain yelled out. "I'd say we have 20 minutes left."

"20 minutes? Why doesn't your ship have a real motor?"

With a glare of acid, the Captain kindly informed his passenger that should he prefer it, "10 miles is no mean feat for a fit man like yourself."

William looked off the deck and saw a small, power-motor boat behind them. "Now _that's_ a boat! Look at that thing, it could cut down the distance between us in about… a minute… Captain, go! GO!"

He recognized the dark haired pair following them. To nobody's surprise, he was being followed by none other than his official stalker-killers, Alexander Khasinou and Irina Derevko. While Alex manned the controls, Irina pulled out a shotgun and aimed perfectly at William. Realizing the peril he was in, Will ducked. At the same time, he heard the explosion and saw the four bullet holes above him conjure themselves to life in the wall above him. To counter the attack, he pulled his pistol out and aimed at Irina.

"I know this shot won't kill you – it's failed so many times before. So survive this!" In a fluid motion, he shot the motor.

Nothing happened.

"You were right, Alex. Vaughn is pretty foolish. As if we'd actually show our motor in an obvious place like that."

"Then try this one," Will came back with, raising his eyebrows as he emptied his clip making holes in the sides of their boat, and allowing it to fill up with water. The lovers tried to save their boat from sinking, while Will ran to hurry the Captain. But one bullet from Irina's shotgun nestled itself in the Captain's forehead. Will, desperate, began to navigate the ship himself. 

Unfortunately, in all his CIA training, he never learned boat controls. It crashed, 7 miles from shore and 6 minutes after the showdown. The harbor was abandoned, so he was forced to swim to shore. Given the time of year, the water was sufficiently chilled, but he found it oddly refreshing.

****

December 20th, 1975, Los Angeles, 10:47 P.M.

At the CIA headquarters, things were calming down. Only serious, hardcore agents milled around, monitoring surveillance or awaiting phone calls. All the other agents were either on vacation for the holidays, or had left for the evening. Agent Jack Bristow just was exiting the briefing room, and heading out the door when the double doors opened. In a green poncho, drenched with rain, a hooded William Vaughn returned to his place of work. Dramatically, he pulled off his hood to reveal his messed, brown-blonde hair and a full beard grown in. Without realizing it, Jack and William collided at the shoulders. When he went to apologize, Jack's face lit up.

"Vaughn?"

A shadow of a smile came across the returning man's face. "It's good to see you again, Jack. I've missed you," he lied.

"Same here," Jack said, with truth backing his statement. "So, what happened?"

"I got captured," Will admitted, with a shrug.

"You? The great 'Shadow' got caught?" Jack commented with disbelief.

"Yeah, I know. It was them damned Russians, they captured me in St. Petersburg KGB HQ." He felt bad, having to lie to his friend. But it was necessary to keep things under control with the CIA. "So, what have you been up to?" William asked, in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Laura comes home tomorrow, so Syd and I are gonna set things up."

"That's great! How is little Sydney these days?"

"An absolute angel. Here, take a look," as Jack pulled out his wallet to show him a picture. But another photo took William's eye.

"Wait, wait. That's Laura?"

"Yeah, she's beautiful. We've been married for six years now."

Almost as if to prevent the awkward moment from happening, Director O'Quinn looked up from a portfolio his nose was in and saw his agents talking. 

"Vaughn! Debrief, now!"

"Oh great…" he muttered.

****

December 24th, 1975, Los Angeles, 8:12 P.M.

"…Merry Christmas to all, and to all…a…good…night!" Nicole finished off the story to her son, and to celebrate, she tickled Mikey on the last four words. Through his shrieks of glee, he yelled "Stop! STOP! DADDY, SAVE MEH-"

The moment was awkward, and Nicole began to cry. "All I want for Christmas is Daddy," the little six-year old said, beginning to cry too. In all their mess, they didn't notice the red-clad figure pass by their window.

"Go to bed, Mikey."

Slowly, he got up and waddled up to his room. The rope and claw found its place, outside, in the chimney, and William followed his son upstairs. When he reached the roof, he pressed his ear against the roof, and heard Mikey saying his prayers. "HO-HO-HO!" the father bellowed.

Mikey stood straight up, and screamed "Mommy! Mommy! Santa's here!"

"What? He can't be…" Nicole said, trying to contemplate what his arrival could mean.

Together, they ran down the stairs where William stood in an overly stuffed Santa suit.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

Michael was too wrapped up in his gifts to notice that his father was the benefactor. He also missed a passionate kiss between Santa and his mother.


	9. Chapter 9

****

742 Main St., Los Angeles, May 14th, 1976 5:00 A.M.

The alarm clock rang out at 5:00 in the morning. Groggily, a man rolled out of bed. Roughly six feet tall, this person walked around the bed and went to his wife's side. With a kiss on her cheek, she woke up. Staring at his chest and boxers, she smiled. "Good morning," she said with a wink. She rolled over to get a better look at her husband, but groaned in pain from a recent bruise on her leg. The groan was quiet, and she did her best to keep her face straight so that she wouldn't be considered "weak"

"I've got work today. I'll be home late, probably. But next weekend, I swear. I'll take you to that restaurant you want." William begged with his wife, Nicole, but she would have none of it. For the last six months, the same promise was stated to her over and over, but still, there was nothing. She couldn't help but think that this time, just maybe, William had gained some credibility. Maybe… She turned around, her face down in the pillow, and covered her head with the covers. Looking at the clock, and realizing time was of the essence, he heads for the shower. By 5:30, he was dressed in a suit. As he brought his jacket out of the closet, a small, brown leather-bound book fell out of the breast pocket. He opened it up to the last page that he had written in. William laughed as he recalled bumping the date up about six months. But the one word he saw that stuck with him was a place: somewhere he hoped he'd never have to go again. He sat down at the table and began reflecting on the operation that had been assigned to him the night before. He beganwriting something down in his diary.

__

"I can't believe you want me to do this- it's hard enough lying to my family about what I have to do, but now you want me to go off to Russia? I can't take down Derevko, 8 others have tried, and I have to stare at the stars representing them every day I enter this building. They've failed, and that's not my priority right now! I'm not about to be number 9, I have a family to take care of, I have thousands of reasons not to go on your wild goose chase."

~ My thoughts towards Director O'Quinn

When he had finished the entry, he looked up. Staring back at him was a 7-year-old boy, who was woken by the shower running. A gold pocket watch was jangling happily from his pocket loop. William thought back, bitterly, to the day that the innocent boy got that watch. He began to open his mouth again to tell him one of either of the two secrets he was keeping from his little Mikey, but he was interrupted. 

"Hey, Dad! Only girls keep diaries!" he said. The man laughed, and sent him away. What a terrible way to spend a Saturday morning…

The phone rang. Nervously, William stared at it, daring himself to pick it up. Soon enough, he walked over, and answered it.

"Vaughn residence, William speaking."

"No need to get all cute with me, boy. Did you get that last artifact?" The voice was deep and distorted, as if being transferred through a voice box.

"I told, you, sir, I've finished your little quest for Rambaldi. He's just an annoyance in my life, and I've given up. Take another pawn, I'm through."

"Then don't expect to live much longer, Mr. Vaughn."

He listened for the click, knowing that the thread would be all he heard from his master. When it came, he hung up hurriedly, and left the building. 

****

CIA Headquarters, Los Angeles, May 14th, 1976 6:30 A.M.

"Sir, I've got a lead. I know that you have absolutely no reason to trust me, but I know a key player in the search for Rambaldi's puzzle."

Vaughn, hoping his plan would catch, watched O'Quinn's face intently.

"Too bad. Since day one, Rambaldi has just been an annoyance in our lives, isn't that right?" O'Quinn almost smiled, but with a hardened man like himself, it's impossible to tell.

"Anyway, back to the mission at hand: Your plane leaves in an hour, Vaughn. If I were you, I'd get over there pretty quick. It's a commercial flight, so if you're late you've screwed this whole operation." Director O'Quinn boomed at a briefing.

"I, I… I can't believe you want me to do this!" William screamed. "This is nuts! There is absolutely no way you can want me to chase after this Russian assassin! Take a look over there!" he said, pointing out the window to a broken man at a computer. He was just staring at the screen, fighting hard to hold back tears. "And she didn't even physically hurt him! She put him through 6 months of solitary confinement, she is a goddamn master of deception! I refuse to go on your wild goose chase."

"Vaughn!"

William snapped out of his trance he was in. "Yes, I'm going. Don't worry."

As he left the doorway, William turned around and looked O'Quinn in the eye. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?" he asked. And in his heart, William knew it was true. 

"I'm sorry, Vaughn. That's need to know only."

Will continued leaving, and as soon as he was out of earshot, O'Quinn picked up the phone. The same, distorted voice that called William was on the other line. "He's just left my office, you got your assassin in place?"

"Of course."

****

Somewhere over the Atlantic, May 14th, 1976 7:42

"This is your captain speaking," a husky male voice came over the intercom. "Flight 4747 headed for Siberia." Will knew what the captain said next, but his constant shuddering from the sound of the word blocked it out. Meanwhile, a small man sat in the row in front of him. He was still very young, celebrating this day as his 7th birthday. His blonde hair and blue eyes wanted nothing more than William dead, and it was all up to him. The captain continued, "We will take off in five minutes, so I'd suggest that you begin to buckle up, sit back, and relax, and enjoy your flight." With a little beep, the captain signed off. William looked up from his magazine, and observed his surroundings. He was in an aisle seat, next to a surprisingly young man, who looked vaguely familiar. As if he were an old colleague… "No," he muttered to himself. "Nobody knew about that." But when the man next to him laughed, he sat up, scared. He knew that laugh, and it struck fear deep into his heart. The laugh was one of pure evil, the same one he had encountered a little over six months ago in that place he never wanted to her again. He began to panic, knowing very well that the man next to him could kill him at any moment. But the detail he was most forgetting, the most important, was what this man meant. For wherever he was, _she_ was sure to follow. But he did his best to keep calm and not panic. 

An attractive young stewardess with surprisingly beautiful black hair came over to him. Even though he knew that it was a stewardesses job to keep the passengers happy, he couldn't help but think that this one's smile was extra-large. "Would you like anything to drink, sir?"

"Yes," he said. "A sprite would be just fine." 

"Yes, sir," she said, pulling a glass out from under the cart, and pouring his drink. He thanked her as he put the drink down on the tray in front of him, and then she continued on. If he had paid more attention, he might have noticed that she didn't serve any other customers. Or stay on the plane for very long, but rather got off through the baggage loading area. The neglected fact is that at that time, another climbed aboard, dressed in all black. The baggage carriers were dead, and if the man didn't recognize the most dangerous woman in all of Russia at that time, she would be too. He pulled out his sniper rifle and watched William, carefully getting him into the crosshairs…

Tired, William took his first sip into the glass. It felt cool running down his parched throat, and he drank the full eight ounces in one gulp. It wasn't until after it had cleared his throat that it started to burn. He gagged, and coughed out a little, plastic star. He flipped it over, and there, written in pen, was a number nine.

"Damn you!" he said, and collapsed on his tray.

Alexander Khasinou stood up from next to him, checked his pulse, and left the plane too


End file.
